


Regret Something

by magebird



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 04:07:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magebird/pseuds/magebird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur knew the song inside and out. It thrummed in his bones in a way nothing else could. It shook his core, his mind, his dreams and sent him scrambling towards something, towards a different level of awareness, towards a panicky slide into what might just be the last kick he’d ever feel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regret Something

**Author's Note:**

> **Prompt:** [Arthur is heading somewhere by himself when Non, Je Regrette Rien comes on. Cue hiding himself in a small space, compulsively rolling his die, traumatic "Ho shit, is this reality?! Is someone trying to wake me up?" and then, you know, when he realizes it is, it's more of "Ho shit, reality is so fickle. One day it might collapse like that." Whereas Eames ~~magically ~knows~ where Arthur is because he's just that awesome~~ was heading to Arthur's place/where ever he was going and finds him. Hurt/comfort ensue. Eames being the one to hear the song is an acceptable alternative. Comforting with a penis also acceptable. As is fluff. Whatever anon prefers. Bonus for really intense imagery. I'm a whore for that.](http://community.livejournal.com/inception_kink/756.html?thread=2237940#t2237940)

The first part of the song was always like a sweeping wave. It built from nearly nothing, flowing in time to build into a crescendo, an overwhelming, floating weight. They had chosen it because it built that way. It could sweep in nearly unnoticed, the roots of a tree cracking apart the stone fortress of the dreamworld, and pull them out into the daylight beyond.

Arthur knew the song inside and out. It thrummed in his bones in a way nothing else could. It shook his core, his mind, his dreams and sent him scrambling towards something, towards a different level of awareness, towards a panicky slide into what might just be the last kick he’d ever feel.

It was a common enough melody. A few times he’d heard snatches of it here and there. Once, not long after Dom had told him that he could walk around in people’s dreams, he’d heard a tinny Muzak version in an elevator on his way to drop off some documents. It had made him smile.

In time, though, that song had become something more than music. It was his cue, his kick. It was impossible to ignore, like the sound of your own name shouted across a crowded room.

He nearly veered off the road when he heard it coming out of nowhere on what he thought had been his way home. There was, first, the automatic reaction, the tuning in to the beat, marking time until you pulled the trigger—But then panic swept over him because as far as he could remember he’d left the dream hours before, he was on his way home, and _this--_ This was supposed to be reality.

A car behind him slammed on its horn as he swerved off to the side of the road, hitting the curb with a jolt as he jerkily came to a stop. The music was—Fading. It didn’t stop, and his ears picked it out of the air, out of the ambient sound. It electrified, terrified him, and he was fumbling in his pocket for the die even before he slammed the car door shut behind him, striking out with long steps towards the nearest pool of light spilling from a streetlamp. There wasn’t a part of his mind free to wonder what the people passing by (projections?!) thought of him, to lock the car behind him or even take the keys out of the ignition. He didn’t care when he fell to his knees and scrubbed the sidewalk dirt into an expense suit, leaning forward to let the die fly in a gentle toss.

It tumbled, and he didn’t breathe, his ears still picking bits and pieces of _Non, Je Regrette Rien_ out of the fuzzy blur of cars on the highway nearby—And then it landed, propped against the edge of the streetlamp. He cursed—desperate times—and snatched it up again, throwing it down to the sidewalk with more force than necessary, sending it bouncing in an agonizing arc and rolling towards the shadows. It skittered, slowed, and stopped innocent, the five white dots facing the sky towards the edge of the pool of light.

He tossed it twice more, just to be sure, the fist clenched around his heart releasing slowly. Terror of being lost in the dream had been instilled in him from the first day. Terror of not knowing when he was in reality and when he was in a dream had grown from the first time he had to stare down the barrel of Dom’s gun and trust that death wasn’t permanent, this time. Thinking you were awake and then having to wake up wasn’t as bad as it could be, but… Thinking you were dreaming, swallowing permanent death with as much ease as he took it in the dream… That was the true terror.

He rolled the die again, compulsively, and it rolled true. His hand plucked it from the dust in a familiar motion, and he closed his fist around it, shutting his eyes and telling his beating heart to _slow down._ He was awake. This was the real world. It wasn’t going to collapse. It wasn’t… Wasn’t…

That music seemed to swell again, though real or imagined he couldn’t tell, and he dropped the die again and again, watching it fall the right way over and over, forcing the panicking, animal part of his mind to see truth, to see the totem landing the _right_ way, to anchor reality with the predictable roll. His ears supplied him with music, and he fought back with the pathetic scrap of plastic, weighted to make him believe.

It would be so easy, the dark places around him whispered, to just _trust_. Stop relying on himself, on these tools he clung to, and believe whatever his sightless mind tried to tell him about the world.

There was a louder crunch of tires somewhere behind him, but he didn’t move, just remained kneeling on the ground, the grit digging into his knees. Footsteps behind him didn’t make him turn, but a hand heavy and warm on his shoulder nearly made him jump out of his skin, and ingrained reflex yanked a gun from his shoulder holster and swung it to point at whoever was--

Eames. Eames looking really a lot less surly than usual. There was that casual insolence that drove Arthur nuts, sure, but it was tempered with… Well, concern.

Arthur saw Eames’ eyes flick to focus on the gun, and at a raise of his eyebrow Arthur took his finger off the trigger, but kept it aimed up towards Eames’ face. His nerves were strung to tight to let him put down that particular defense. 

“Is this the thanks I get for stopping to help a driver in distress?” Eames asked, but his voice was a little too jovial, the joke a little too forced.

Arthur reached out blindly to grab up the die again, let it roll. He saw Eames track it for a moment, then look pointedly away from it.

“Did it come up all right?” he asked, reaching up casually to scratch his nose, “Cause, Darling, if you shoot me there’ll be a mess.”

“Yes.” Arthur said, and found his voice to be too husky and closed. He swallowed, put the gun away. Eames presence was oddly steadying, much as Arthur usually found him annoying. He would understand Arthur’s terror, he had to know it as well. Swallowing again, he said in clipped tones, “Check yours.”

Arthur didn’t look up, but he heard the sound of a hand darting into a pocket, and then there was a tense moment of silence.

Eames said nothing, and then spoke in a low, awful voice, “Look at me.”

Arthur turned his head quickly, panic snatching at him again, and saw that Eames was holding a miniature Rubik’s cube on a keychain ring. It was about half the size of a normal cube, and the colors were completely scrambled. Arthur frowned, feeling himself tense, “Is it…?”

“This is real.” Eames said, crouching down so that he was on the same level as Arthur and giving the keychain a little shake. His eyes and voice were intense, low, the sturdy strumming of a bass line, of an anchor dragging down through shifting sands to rock. “It’s unsolvable. Too many reds.” He lowered the hand holding the cube and said in a voice too tender to be comfortable, “What’s the matter with you?”

“I heard…” Arthur began, then glanced around, seeing something besides the five dots for the first time in some time. He was on the ground ruining his suit, and he probably looked like a complete fool. He smoothed a hand back over his hair, and then got steadily to his feet, his totem clutched in his fist, “I panicked and it was stupid. Luckily it wasn’t on a job.”

Eames rose as well, watching him with an expression unreadable in the darkness. “Are you going to be okay, Darling?”

There was something beyond the question in his voice. Something Arthur didn’t really want to hear there and didn’t really want to deny. So he didn’t acknowledge it, and only shook his head dismissively, “I won’t make the same mistake.”

He was halfway to his car before Eames spoke again. He hadn’t moved from where he’d been standing, and he said in a low voice, “That’s not really what I asked.”

Arthur was almost angry. He was almost unable to keep the boiling tide of fear-fueled emotions in check. He was almost going to turn around and punch the other man, remind him that trying to slip under someone’s skin didn’t come happen quite as easily as in the dream. He turned, about to snap something unwise--

Eames was coming towards him, the next thing he knew, and grabbed him by the wrist—Panic, terror, a pure visceral adrenaline rush sent him struggling before he could think, but Eames was simply stronger and shoved him against the car. Nimbly, Eames blocked his hand from reaching to the gun (to turn it on himself or on Eames, he didn’t know,) and then Eames’ face was very, very close to his, and the reflection of headlights was glinting off his eyes like the moon off choppy waves.

“I asked if you were going to be okay. It’s useless to let you wander off only to find you’ve put a bullet in your pretty little head cause your stupid totem wasn’t falling properly.” 

The adrenaline made the air sing, a different tune, or at least a different verse, and Arthur wasn’t sure which of their hearts was pounding hard enough to make them both pulse with… something.

Eames almost kissed him. Arthur ducked his head, trying to break free, and heard himself say, “Get off me, I’m fine.”

Eames released him just the way Arthur didn’t really want right now, and he felt like he was drifting until he found his feet again and half-tripped off the curb, going around towards the driver-side door. It didn’t matter that Eames stood still, facing half-away from him, looking towards the streetlamps. It felt like he was still on top of him, still pressing achingly close, to steady him, to hold him down and force him to trust something.

“This is real, Darling,” he insisted, and Arthur had to order himself to step on the gas and escape.


End file.
